


A Marble Army

by UnicornFlowers



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, I'm Sorry, It hurt me to write this just as much as it hurt you to read it, Love, M/M, Please Don't Hate Me, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29758482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnicornFlowers/pseuds/UnicornFlowers
Summary: "Hey baby, it's me again."
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 14
Kudos: 40





	A Marble Army

"So...yer totally gonna call me every night, right?"

"Okay, well, I'm not going to have my phone so maybe not, but I'll definitely send you a romantic letter once a month to remind you I'm not dead," Kiyoomi's hands fix themselves at Atsumu's waist, the gesture as comforting as it is bittersweet. He knows he's going to have to do this a bunch more times - that's Kiyoomi's job, after all - but it doesn't mean he has to like it.

He loops his arms around his boyfriend's neck, wondering if, _maybe, just maybe,_ Kiyoomi will change his mind and stay with him instead of going off to fight some war that doesn't have a name just yet. It's not even his fight, shouldn't be, at least. He should be spending every day at home with Atsumu, making pancakes and obsessively cleaning their dishwasher.

He swats the ebony-haired man on the chest.

"Don't even joke about that," his lamenting is cut off by a kiss, sweet and slow against his lips, an assurance of sorts. Atsumu leans into the sweet contact, chasing those lips that taste of mint chapstick, relishing the moment because he knows he won't get another one like it for six months. _God,_ six months is such a long fucking time.

"I promise I'll call you whenever I can. And I'll be home before you know it. Six months is like..." Atsumu raises skeptical eyebrows because, yes, six months is absolutely a long time. A long time in which Atsumu might just die without his OmiOmi standing at his side. "Okay, it's a while. But I'll be back. And then we can go to all the new restaurants you and your brother discover and do domestic shit like that. You'll see."

There's another chaste kiss placed to his lips just to cut off his protests - and Atsumu has many. But he takes it all the same, allowing himself to melt against Kiyoomi's body and cherish his warmth. A heavy sigh escapes him against his boyfriend's lips, carrying the weight of a goodbye, even if it's only a temporary one, even if they'll be able to reverse it soon enough.

Kiyoomi must notice, because he pulls away, dark eyes boring into Atsumu's like the man can read all his thoughts and pick apart his secrets.

"Keep the apartment clean while I'm gone," is all he says. And then: "I love you."

For a moment, just a moment, time freezes in a perfect way. In the way where dust particles are suspended in golden sunlight like the remnants of stardust from a previous version of the universe humans were never privy to, where Kiyoomi's soft smile speaks volumes about how he feels, where Atsumu could stan and stare at those goddamn gorgeous eyes of his for eons on end and never get tired of them.

He knows the world has to start back up again, far sooner than either of them would like. But for this moment, they have time in their hands.

"I love ya too," he says, meaning every word.   
  
  


**_\--[Four months later]--_ **   
  
  


"Rich bitches demanding an MRI for a cold headache are the worst part of my life," Atsumu grips as he absently stirs the pasta cooking on the stovetop.

True to his word, Kiyoomi has called him every week for the past four months. Sometimes he misses a week (for which Atsumu scolds him thoroughly) but Kiyoomi always makes it up to him with sweet words (Atsumu is such a weak, _weak_ man). It will come as a surprise to no one that Kiyoomi's phone calls (which happen at eight every time almost on the dot) have quickly become the best part of Atsumu's week.

"I mean seriously, just 'cause yer health insurance covers it, don't mean ya _need_ it. This dude is fuckin' convinced he has a brain tumor an' keeps makin' us run more tests which, of course, come back fuckin' negative," Atsumu sticks his tongue out in concentration as he balances his phone between his shoulder and his ear, blowing on the pasta he holds on his wooden spoon.

He knows he'll rush it and probably burn his tongue in the process, but by now it's just habit.

"You should just tell him he has a brain tumor and squeeze him for cash. You have been saying the hospital could use more donors," Kiyoomi's voice, even through the static filter of the phone, is as sweet and perfectly crafted as ever, deep timber music to Atsumu's ears.

"I would absolutely do that, babe, if it was at all legal. Which it's definitely not. I could lose my job."

"If you lose your job, I'm kicking you out. If you're not going to pitch in on rent then I have no use for you."

"Aw, oh my god Omi, I love ya too!" Atsumu snarks as he strains the starchy water away from his precious pasta, dumping the noodles into a colander in the sink. "Honestly, I dunno _why_ I'm datin' ya. Yer so mean ta me anyway. I should just dump yer ass an' find someone that treats me like the queen I am."

Kiyoomi scoffs on the other side of the phone.

"Yeah, tell me how well that works out for you," Atsumu sticks his tongue out like Kiyoomi has any way of seeing him as he scrapes the plain pasta into a bowl and goes hunting for the marinara sauce. The thunking of cupboards must cue Kiyoomi into what he's doing, becuase the next words out of his mouth are, "Spaghetti?"

"How'dja know?"

"You make it when you're stressed," damn him for knowing the blond so well. Atsumu whines, high pitched and bratty into the speaker, likely bursting Kiyoomi's eardrums with it. "Okay, what is it you brat?"

"I _miss you,_ " he whines again, even louder this time, if that's possible, as if Kiyoomi couldn't hear it in the way Atsumu spends most moments of their conversations together listening more to the sound of his voice than the words coming out of his mouth. "I miss ya an' yer so far away. I wantcha here with me."

There a pause and static silence fills the gap it leaves. Atsumu almost thinks the line went dead with how long he has to wait to receive a reply to such standard griping.

But then the reply comes, and it's soft and hushed, sweet, like Kiyoomi's looking at him across miles and smiling, just for him.

"I wish I was there with you too."

He then goes on to explain that even Atsumu's shit cooking would be better than what he has to eat at camp, and that at least he wouldn't have to endure thirty minutes of macho bro talk a day just to sit down and eat. Which leads into a discussion about how the U.S army really _hasn't_ caught up to the current decade which leads to Atsumu telling him about an old guy who asked him if he was a woman with short hair because apparently, nurses can't be guys.

The conversation doesn't stop, Kiyoomi's voice never stops sounding, and Atsumu thinks there's no other way he'd rather spend his night than entangled in conversation with the man he loves.

And eventually, Atsumu has to actually eat instead of just letting his pasta get cold and Kiyoomi has other business to attend to, but they have that moment. They _have_ it.

Kiyoomi misses their next week.   
  
  


**_\-- [Two weeks later]--_ **   
  
  


"Atsumu Miya?"

Atsumu never wanted to know about Kiyoomi's job. Not more than he had to, anyway. He never researched the military, never looked into it more than he needed to, never wanted to hear the stories Kiyoomi brought back with him.

It's selfish, he knows. But Kiyoomi doesn't mind, and Atsumu's not going to bring it up. So really, Atsumu knows very little about the military and their proceedings and what the daily is like for them. God, he probably couldn't even tell you the different ranks if asked.

But the general's uniform is instantly recognizable. He opens the door to his apartment, their apartment, and desaturated-gray-green greets him. the colorful pins affixed to the collars and the silver badges clash with the gross olive color - _"It's not that bad, 'Tsumu." "It absolutely_ is _that bad."_ Atsumu finds a knot tying itself in his stomach before he even answers.

"That's me," he manages.

The two men that stand in his doorway are quite different. One is white and old, wrinkles of age pulling mottled skin towards his chin, matt gray eyes somber and saddened. The other has skin the color of dark chocolate and eyes that are sky blue. The difference in age must be at least thirty years, and yet they wear the same uniform and they wear it equally well.

"My name is General Scott Langley, this is General Stewards. We're with the U.S military. I was the captain of your boyfriend's platoon," _Kiyoomi._ Oh, this is about Kiyoomi.

Did he get hurt? Is he coming home? Can Atsumu see him? A nagging itch at the back of his brain has him almost slamming the door in their faces before they get the chance to say anything else.

"It's uh...s'nice ta meetcha," he croaks out through a throat that feels like it swallowed sandpaper.

General's Langley and Stewards don't say anything. They stare at him like he's a ghost, like they're staring out his back window down the street. Their eyes are hallowed of life and filled with something different that is neither warm nor cold.

"I wish we could be here under different circumstances-"

Atsum's heart drops in his chest. Did...did Kiyoomi get hurt? Is he going to be okay? Come to think of it, why are two generals visiting him at ten in the evening. General Langley is old as fuck. He should've been in bed two hours ago.

Atsumu shakes his head, forcing a smile.

"Wait, different circumstances...why-..." he's trying to chuckle, but any sound he can make comes out strangled. He chokes on it. Giving himself only a brief moment of recovery, he eeks out, "May I ask why yer here?"

Silence falls heavy, like fat, wet snowflakes between the three of them. Atsumu doesn't know where to look, eyes flitting between their faces, then to the wall behind them, then back again. On the contrary, the generals stare past him at something unknown.

Atsumu's heart beats in his ears at their silence, thoughts and assumptions being tamped down before they have the chance to bloom to fruition. He swallows around the lump in his throat, tempts himself a hundred times with closing the door before they have a chance to take apart his world bit by bit with their words of formality.

He's not expecting what they say next. Even when you already know, you're not expecting it. But it comes anyway like a forecasted storm. When it hits, it's just as jarring as if you hadn't known it was coming at all.

"Kiyoomi Sakusa was killed in active combat."

_No._

_What?_

_No, he wasn't._

He couldn't be. He called Atsumu a week ago. They talked about crappy army food and hypochondriac patients. Kiyoomi isn't dead. That's fucking...fucking ridiculous. Atsumu almost laughs at the prospect, but he can't get the noise out of his chest.

It gets stuck in his throat, withers away, and begins the slow process of fading into nothing. _Something_ starts budding in his chest, something where his lungs should be taking in air, something where his heart should be beating in his ribcage.

"I am...there are no words to describe my remorse," _stop it. Stop talking. Stop it with this fucking cruel joke,_ Atsumu shakes his head, again and again as if he can un-hear the words and stop time where stands. Reverse the truth and set things right. "Kiyoomi was an invaluable member of our company. He saved many lives-"

_Stop it._

"No, I...dunno what kinda sick joke this is but-..." he chokes. But _what?_

He breathes through his open mouth but no air comes in, each one more suffocating than the last. His tongue swipes across his back molars, the pressure behind his eyes forces him to blink up. _Kiyoomi isn't dead. Omi isn't dead._

It's not possible. Kiyoomi is alive and healthy and he has a resting heart rate of sixty beats per minute and he goes on morning runs and he drinks black coffee with no sweetener which the doctor said wasn't necessarily good for him but you'd have to drink an _insane_ amount of coffee to cause any real damage so he's _not dead._

_He's not dead._

General Langley bows his head, General Stewards stares straight ahead, avoiding Atsumu's eyes. Broad shoulders shake with the effort, his bottom lip follows their lead. And Atsumu is breathing rapidly through his nose, just to keep something, _anything_ left of his composure. To stave off the burning underneath his skin and the squeezing of his lungs _just a little longer._

There's nowhere to put it all, so his body shakes. It trembles like he's walking through a blizzard in negative ten-degree weather with nothing but his t-shirt and sweatpants to protect him from the cold.

"...Your...Your boyfriend was one of the bravest men I knew-"

"Stop," he doesn't even hear himself say the one-syllable attempt to hold his world together where it splits at the seams. The words hurt to hear, like an ice pick being driven into his skull, a knife inserted under his sternum, puncturing his lungs and heart in one fell swoop.

"He talked about you a great deal," General Langley says.

It's all falling apart. The world is blurry and the ground beneath his feet is unstable, he can't talk or breathe or do anything but stand there. And everything hurts. It hurts just to exist in this moment. It hurts like drowning, like suffocating, like burning to death in the middle of the Sahara or freezing to death in the arctic. It hurts like a hundred razor blades cutting him to the bone.

It _hurts._ It hurts so fucking bad he thinks he'd be better off dead.

"He was very proud of you."

Atsumu falls to his knees and cries - dramatic, showy, like all the soap opera scenes he and Kiyoomi used to make fun of- _Kiyoomi._ He never got to say goodbye. The last things they talked about were crappy army food and hypochondriac patients. 

_You can't be gone yet. I didn't get to say goodbye. I wanted to tell you I love you. One more time Omi, you can't leave me yet._

_I love you. I love you._

He gasps in on every breath, chokes on each one. And he cries, and he sobs, and his face is on fire beneath his skin and his blunt nails digging into his palms are drawing blood but the sensation is mute.

_I love you. We can't...we can't be over yet._ We can't be over yet.

The crying doesn't end and the storm doesn't pass, even as General Langley says,

"The U.S military will pay the full funeral expenses," _I don't care. I don't fucking care. Give him back to me. Give him fucking back to me._ "Atsumu, you're listed as his next of kin. We'd like... to request your permission to bury Kiyoomi at Arlington Cemetary."

Atsumu doesn't know what he says next. He doesn't know when the two generals leave. And even after that, he doesn't know when he gets off the floor.

But he does. And time keeps moving. And the world keeps spinning. Which is the worst part of it all.   
  
  


**_\--[Three months later]--_ **   
  
  


Atsumu meant to make the trip sooner.

It's not far, maybe a twenty-minute drive with moderate traffic. He doesn't know why he waited. He doesn't know why he avoided the idea of going altogether by throwing himself into work, picking up extra shifts at the hospital so Shirabu could visit his family in Japan and Yachi could take her dog to the vet.

He doesn't know why he would rather take a trip to Target to replace all of Kiyoomi's lemon-scented cleaning supplies with differently-branded, unscented versions. He doesn't know why he spent hours cleaning his apartment until the place smelled so potently of sterilizing chemicals that he had to sleep on Osamu's couch.

He doesn't know why he sits in his running car for fifteen minutes in the parking lot of the coroner's office, searching the crevices of his mind for any task he forgot to do before ultimately giving up and shutting off the engine.

But he does all those things. And they don't make him feel better. And they don't dull the ache.

Every step he takes still hurts, and even the temperate spring air doesn't feel clean enough to breathe.

The coroner's office is a bleak place with discolored carpet that looks like it was transplanted from the hospital down the street. The woman at the front desk looks tired, like she hasn't been getting enough sleep lately. Atsumu can sympathize. The dark bags under their eyes are made to match. It's grimly satisfactory in a way.

"Can you give me your name and who you're here to pick up for, hun?" the woman has a kind smile, sweet and sympathetic. Atsumu feels pitied in the shallowest way. She probably sees a hundred people like him a day.

"Atsumu Miya and uh...Kiyoomi Sakusa," his voice breaks on the last syllable, the name bitter on his tongue where it used to be sugary sweet. It leaves an imprint, a burn, and he knows he won't be able to taste anything for days after this.

"And could I have your age and date of birth, please?"

"Twenty-five, October fifth, nineteen-ninety-five."

"Alright, I'll be back with your things in a minute. Sit tight, hun."

Atsumu doesn't. Instead, he stands as if in defiance as she disappears from behind the counter, glass misted with smudged fingerprints distorting her departure. Kiyoomi would say he would rather stab himself in the eye with a fork and touch it (provided the fork was clean, of course). Atsumu huffs what could almost be a laugh through his nose.

He doesn't smile.

When she returns, she has a mist plastic bag in her hands, one step above a ziplock. Inside are a few small things Atsumu recognizes - a silver watch with a broken clock face, a black leather wallet, two pink plastic hair clips. They burn a hole in his chest as he takes the bag, the urge to cry welling up hot in his throat.

What he doesn't recognize is the significantly smaller bag she hands him next. It's the size of those plastic baggies that hair ties come in, and inside there's...

"We...found this on his person."

The small gold ring blurs double through hot tears. All at once, his world is breaking again, like hitting the rewind button just to relive the worst moment of his life. The air isn't breathable and the words he wants to say are messy on his tongue.

He wants to crumple the bag and throw the ring off the edge of the bridge in the park near his apartment building, watch the current wash it away forever until it's nothing but a bitter memory. He wants to stomp on it until it's just a malformed hunk of metal.

He's pulled from his thoughts by the desk lady.

"His records don't mention being marri-"

"We weren't," he swallows his choke and it builds in his chest, the pressure almost unbearable.

"Oh..." warm brown eyes hold too much sympathy. Her voice lowers, so soft it's barely audible above the whir of the AC unit hanging off the far left window. "I'm...I'm so sorry-"

"Thanks," he decides then that he can't be there anymore. That he'd rather be alone even if alone means his chest will burn with the effort of forcing out tears he's already spent. "Have a good one." He says, and pushes his way back out into daylight.  
  
  


**_\--[Five years later]--_ **   
  
  


"Hey baby, it's me again."

Atsumu kneels among an army of marble headstones. They stand atop of a plane of green, forever guarding the legacy of heroes, fallen souls immortalized in stone that shimmers under midday sun.

The weather is mild, a nothing day. It is neither hot nor cold, rainy nor blindingly bright. Rather, it is absently sunny, and thin clouds are slow to make their way across a silky blue sky. It's a nice day by all standards. Atsumu has found he can see at as such again. Less than bright, more than colorless.

"It's been a while since I've visited, hasn't it? Sorry about that," he rubs the back of his head, dragging his fingertips through the short hairs of his undercut. He's due for a haircut soon. He laughs. Atsumu's laugh isn't bitter anymore. At one point it might've been - _how could ya leave me?_ \- it's not now. "Shit's been busy, y'know? Been pickin' up extra shifts at the hospital 'cause Hitoka's Ma just passed away. I think it's been hard on her."

"She says she alright, but I can _hear_ her cryin' in the breakroom. She never really was good at hiding shit from people," he plucks a blade of grass and rubs it through his fingertips, imagining what Kiyoomi might say - " _you're one to judge."_ There would be a lilt to his voice, a slight edge of fondness intermingled with the jest. "I know I'm not one ta talk..."

"Hina had her first-day a' preschool yesterday. Got all upset when a kid asked her why she didn't look like me an' had red hair," Atsumu chuckles fondly to himself. He really hadn't meant to smile at his adopted daughter sobbing fat tears, but it's too cute how sensitive she is. "I don't think she quite believed me when I told her that he was just jealous a' her hair..."

Silence rests on his shoulders, the traces of morning dew that still linger on blades of grass dampen the knees of his jeans.

With a heavy sigh, he brings his fingers up molasses slow to fiddle with the gold ring around his neck, warmth fizzing against the pad of his thumb as he holds it, delicately, softly, with reverence to a timeline they never got to be a part of, a future they never got to have.

They could've been so much more. They could have had everything.

There's a sad sense of balance to it all, really. The way the universe evens itself out is cruel and unexplainable by science or predictions or statistics. Things happen and others don't. People leave and others stay. But in it all, there's equilibrium. Atsumu just happened to be on the wrong end of it all.

When he directs his eyes back to the name on the small slab of marble, he smiles. And it's real, and genuine, not a hint of sadness behind it.

"I miss you, Kiyoomi," he brushes his fingers against the lettering etched into stone, memorialization of the best man Atsumu has or ever will know. "But I'm okay now."

"I'm okay."

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so sorry. i wrote this on a request for my one-shot book on wattpad and it hurt me physically and it's not even that good so i'm kind of disappointed in myself for my inability to write angst. the only reason i posted it on here is because it's not what i usually write and i thought it would be interesting. 
> 
> so yeah, that's all i have to say for myself ಥ∀ಥ
> 
> thank you for reading luvs and have a wonderful day/night~!


End file.
